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England, George Allan, 1877-1936

"The Flying Legion"

"
"Do so!" returned the Master, curtly. "I hardly think we need use much
ceremony in disposing of him." He turned to the other cot. "Well, sir,
how about this man?"
"I'm--all right, sir," weakly coughed the wounded New Zealander. He
tried to bring a hand to his forehead, but could hardly lift it
from the sheet. The doctor, with compressed lips, slightly shook a
negativing head, as the Master raised interrogative brows.
"Serious," Lombardo whispered. "Shot through the right lung. Bullet
still there. Severe internal hemorrhage. I may be able to operate,
with Daimamoto assisting, but only in case the patient rallies. We
really need a nurse, on this expedition. Medically speaking, we're
short-handed. However, I'll do my best, sir."
"I know you will," answered the Master. He stood a moment gazing down
at the New Zealander, with stern face and tight mouth. This man on the
cot had already given much for the expedition, and might give all. Not
without blood and suffering--death, perhaps--was the Master's dream to
come to its fruition. After a moment, the Master turned away. He faced
Captain Alden.
"Your wound not yet dressed?" demanded he.
"No, sir, not yet.


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